


The Journalist: Forget Me Not

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [9]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TJOURN 0.5 - Some time passes before Tom is home again, time marked by silence. Is it a case of 'out of sight, out of mind'?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: Forget Me Not

 

 **H** e's been home for days now. Over a week. You've managed to keep your head, managed to keep your distance, managed not to pester him daily with random notes, now compiling. Though you would never admit it outright, you’ve been counting down the days until his return to the country. Counting the dwindling days until his previously stated return, and the increasing number of days since talking to him.

So, yes, he’s been home a week, but you haven’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a phone call, however brief. No _hullo I’ve been unpacking – decided to move about some furniture – and then rearrange the library by date of publication_.

Nothing.

Then the photos surface.

He’s been decompressing from his time spent abroad by allowing others to dress and parade him about the streets of London. He’s just fulfilling obligations that are necessary in the life of an actor, but the sudden lack of contact despite closer proximity is wounding, despite your best efforts. The photos themselves strengthen the injury: shots gleaned from individuals on the street surrounding the photoshoot. Photographs that also happened to capture him leaving with an unidentified woman as he departs the location – a woman clearly not you.

It puts an end to the jibes and insinuations by your coworkers. Finally, no more teasing regarding his insistence that you are the only one to interview him. Under different circumstances you might rejoice in that fact. Damn it all – once again you established a tether to an actor and once again gotten yourself hurt. If only you'd been able to keep your distance. If only you could congratulate yourself on keeping to your rule. But no - once again... once again...

You glance out the nearby window at the hazy sunrise – the very window you’d propped open more than once to allow Tom to hear the sounds of the city while he was away. Unable to sleep from your frustration you’d risen early and done the only thing you could think of to help distract - gone to work. Clearly, though, burying yourself in the job isn’t going to make the disappointment you feel dissipate any faster. You need a change in scenery, and to better listen to your gut when it warns you off developing attachments.

Angry with yourself, you push away from your desk and head for the elevators. Walking helps – ducking and weaving through the increasing foot traffic. It’s still early but the city is starting to rise, the well-rested joining the restless.

You have actor armor for a _reason_! Had. Had actor armor. Had it, and it failed you. You follow the ebb and flow of those on the sidewalk, not really paying attention to your direction – nor having a destination in mind. You look back, only just able to spot the windows belonging to the offices where you work. You’ve been tempted more than once to snap a picture of it, send it to him along with a note: _From the outside, looking in. Something to go with the background noise the next time you call_.

Add that to the list of things never sent, calls never made. It was three weeks of finding excuses. You were always able to talk yourself out of taking that leap and making contact. The failsafe reasoning? Tom was a busy man. And he’d stopped reaching out to you, too.

The first day without word from him had passed with only a frown of realization once you were home and aware of the absence. It was an omission easy enough to assign to a hectic day. Then it was two days. Three. Four… It became increasingly difficult to fight the growing doubt. He _had_ asked you over, once he came home again. That knowledge still brought a smile to your lips, but one that decreased in strength as the days continued on without a follow up. No short greetings. No playful words. No songs of the day.

After a week and a half doubt had set up a well-established camp – and doubt led to worry and full-on melancholy. All he had wanted was acquiescence? God love the actor ego.

You almost run headlong into a cyclist that jumps the curb. You’re tempted to allow this fresh wave of anger to draw out sharp words, but it’s not worth it. You’ll be shouting at his quickly diminishing backside, for one… and two, your anger isn’t so much directed at him, but at yourself. You’d known from the start that you needed to be on guard while interacting with Tom. Known it – and still –

It’s pointless to continue to dwell. He has something else to distract him. Someone else to distract him. You won’t have to figure out how to duck further invitations to his home, despite already having said yes. No more needing to guard details of your life. Sure, you’d revealed your love for Hyde Park so that’s one place that might be painful to visit for a little while, but there are other locations dear to you that are still yours alone. Like… the bookshop a few blocks over – a little café hidden within, the one that you’d discovered early on after your move to the city. It had been a happy accident, found after making yet another wrong turn while trying to learn your way around.

Now you just need to stop seeing things that remind you of him, delete the drafts of texts and random photos that you’ve been meaning to send… and pray he doesn’t try for another interview. At least not until you have your actor armor fortified and back in place.

Though the scent of pastries is tempting, you avoid wandering towards the foodstuffs. You’ve had breakfast already – and you’d rather not stand there staring at the menu, imagining what Tom might enjoy with his earl grey… Not that perusing the shelves, glancing at book spines and wondering which he has already read versus which he might enjoy is any better.

There’s apparently no fighting the melancholy this morning. Might as well sit down and let the feeling pass. You pick an out of the way table and settle into the chair, leaning forward and splaying your arms over the wooden table, allowing your head to thunk down onto its surface with a bit more force than necessary.

 _Thunk_.

You should have listened to your gut. You lift your head a fraction and allow it to hit the table again, the surrounding environment seeming to shake with the impact.

 _Thunk_.

You should have held more carefully onto your actor armor.

 _Thunk_.

You should have better heeded the warnings about **_The Hiddleston Effect_**. You had faith that you could withstand the power of his smile, his laugh which you _swear_ you can hear, his overall ability to win everyone over – faith that you would be immune, or at least better able to resist.

 _Thunk_.

There. There’s that laugh again. You sigh heavily, fully aware that it is going to be a long battle to shake him from your system. “Stupid Hiddleston. Stupid **_heart_**.”

“Not sure which to address first… the comment or the way it was uttered.”

That was no hallucination of his laugh – that was voiced concern, quickly absorbed by the proximity of the surrounding stacks that would remain mostly empty for another hour at most. You sit up and blink away the lightheadedness from the action. Your eyes seek him out, finding him paused amongst the stacks of books, watching you. “Tom? What are you doing here?”

His gentle smile starts to fade. “Hello to you, too.”

Oh God. As though summoned by your thoughts he is **here**. Of course he had witnessed the tail end of your lamentation. Of course he had. Why the hell can’t you catch a break wherein he is concerned? Oh to be able to melt away, blend into the shelves to escape the embarrassment of this moment.

Why is he here? Here, of all places. Have you misremembered? Is this a location he had mentioned during one of your chats – somewhere you had explored while he was away in an attempt to feel closer to him? Is it you that is intruding upon a sanctuary of his?

 “I – wasn’t expecting to see you.” Here, or ever again. You leave that bit unspoken. Is this anger, or joy, or relief that you’re feeling under the almost suffocating embarrassment?

An almost-smile pulls at the edges of his mouth. “I’ve gathered.” When you don’t move to stand he shifts on his feet, lifting his lightly tanned satchel off his shoulder before claiming a chair at your table.

You purse your lips, puckering them as you search for words and lift your hand to press your fingertips to the spot where your head had been making contact with the table. Better not to draw further attention to that moment that you’ll never be able to forget.

As you drop your hand to the table again you focus for a moment on the worn finish of the wood. Do you tell him you’ve missed him? Should you tell him? You could start now in the effort to reassemble your actor armor. Rebuild your armor and reestablish the distance that was meant to keep you safe – keep your heart safe.

It is an option, sure, but upon looking up and seeing those blue eyes focused on you, you find your mouth not cooperating with the directive. “I just – what I mean – Hi. It’s good to see you, Tom, of course. Unexpected, and lovely, and…” You struggle with keeping your hands still. Maybe if you plucked a book from the shelf. Or held them in your lap. But never mind that – your mouth is still running. “And we haven’t talked, lately. But I’ve seen that you’ve been busy. I hope you’ve had time to enjoy being home? I know it hasn’t all been bought time and designer clothes.”

With the last comment you manage to hinge your jaw shut. It had sounded less like friendly conversation and more akin to the jealous accusation of a wounded ego. Not too far off from the truth, really – a realization that forces you to wince and follow up the long winded babble with an apology while you watch Tom blink as he absorbs your words, “Oh God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” You move to stand, shaking your head and averting your gaze, too afraid to see the thoughts reflected in his eyes. “Look, you’ve said hello. And I said hello – and I’ve just proven beyond doubt why it’s a good thing we haven’t spoken for a bit, even if I’ve missed you. So…”

Tom snags your arm, encircling your wrist within his grasp, and gives a light tug. The action forces you to pause in your steps beside him. “Alright wait. Wait a minute. Please.” He waits until you’re seated and looking at him again, the silence extending the few seconds until you can meet his gaze once more. “You’ve missed me?” He arches his eyebrows up a tic and offers an almost hidden smile, “You could’ve called.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“As, I’m sure, you have been, too. But being busy didn’t stop me from reaching out.” He has yet to release your wrist, as though afraid that you’ll try to bolt up and away from him again if he lets go.

Once again you counter his words with a blurted thought, netting the second scowl from him in less than a minute. “Until recently.”

Tom nods, “Until recently. Yes. Despite _daily_ wanting to talk to you, I finally listened to my assistant and took a step back.” Your blank, confused expression draws further explanation from him. He finally draws his hand away from you to fold his hands neatly atop the table in front of him. “She pointed out – over and over again until it finally stuck – that it was always me initiating contact. That if it was something you wanted too, that you’d call or…” He gives his shoulders a loose shrug and shakes his head, allowing a frown to dip the corner of his mouth down a fraction. His fingers have suddenly become fascinating to him. He seems to study the way they are intertwined. “It doesn’t much matter what I want if you’re not interested.”

The conclusion you draw, the only conclusion you can see from the explanation he just gave you, furthers the spiral of your emotions. He was waiting for something more than replies to his texts, something beyond the cautiously flirtatious encounters and hesitant conversations that only resulted from his prompting.

“Of course,” he adds, biting at his lower lip between words, “er, three weeks without a word and I panicked. It is London, after all. Full of reasons to forget someone who spends so much time away. And then I found myself in the area. Well,” he smiles fully for the first time, looking up once more to subject you to the full effect of his grin, “I sort of made sure I found myself in the area – only to once again find myself giving chase.”

Lightheadedness accompanies the smile you give him in return. You’re not completely positive that the feeling isn’t half caused by your previous actions – forehead vs table – or if it can all be credited to his admissions. He’d been coming to see you and followed you from the offices to your current location…

There’s still a little voice in your head warning you against losing your heart to another actor, and you’ll surely relapse into your doubts time and again, but for now you’re content to smile at Tom - smile and give him that which he so desires: hope.

You lick your lips, dipping your eyes down as you smile before looking back up into his. You start speaking softly – half out of respect for your surroundings, half out of uncertainty over the wisdom of your words. “While you were still abroad – I thought of sending you things. I mean, I started to send you things and then… the view from my office window, for example. I’m sure you’ve seen many that are infinitely more impressive.” He’s halfway to shaking his head, opening his mouth to reply but you keep talking, unable to stop yourself now that you’ve started. “But I thought – well it was something to accompany the background sounds during calls. And other things, too. All still in my drafts, or the outbox, waiting. Silly things that wouldn’t have mattered one way or the other but after a moment’s consideration – I guess I thought they weren’t worth sharing? But also – because – well, I’ve been trying to safeguard myself.”

Tom mutters, repeating your words back to you, “Safeguard yourself?” He serves up one word in question, “Why?”

It’s a question that has a ready answer, “Because you’re dangerous, Monsieur. Even held at a distance you’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous.” He says it blinking and testing the word on his tongue as though he’s never heard or spoken it before in his life. He gives his head a little shake while he tries to fight off the befuddlement. “I promise you I’m not.”

Though he’s sitting there shaking his head, believing with every fiber of his being that he’s telling you the truth, experience tells you otherwise. “You shouldn’t make false promises, Tom.”

“I’m not entirely sure what to… There’s a story that lies beneath that statement, I think.”

You talk over him in a deliberate act to try to forestall next logical thing to come from his mouth – a question you’re not yet ready to answer. “There’s always a story. That’s what people are. Collections of stories.” Your environment is starting to come to life with morning commuters arriving for their daily dose of caffeine. It’s an opportunity to escape before you can lose more ground in your battle against the desire to tell Tom every little thought popping into your head. “And I’d rather not be the reason you have a story about being exceptionally late to work. I’m sure you have somewhere you need to be.”

“Yes, we're all compilations of stories - and you’re once again avoiding revealing any of yours, beautifully.”

You’re saved from responding to his accusation by the trill of your phone. A text – your boss has arrived and is looking for you, worried at your absence though your belongings are at your desk. “I – it’s Sam. My boss.”

“I remember.”

Pressing your lips together, it only takes a fraction of a second to make the decision. “Walk me back?”

Tom chuffs out a laugh as he stands, throwing his satchel over his shoulder. “You’re determined to keep me off balance, aren’t you?”

“What?”

He shakes his head, motioning towards the door for you to lead the way back out onto the sidewalk. “Happy to walk you back. I actually erm, left something for you at your desk.”

“You did what, now?” You peek over your shoulder at him as the pair of you make your way towards the storefront.

Tom is grinning as he replies, his face and neck tinging pink in odd splotches. “A cutting from my garden. Proof, as it were, of the existence of the so called _secret_ garden.” He waits until out on the sidewalk to continue, the battle through the patrons near the door preventing further conversation for a brief moment. “Must’ve just missed you, apparently. Reed said it would be ok to pop in and say hullo. But then you weren’t – well, when I came back down he said you’d just walked out the door.”

You can’t help but allow a smile to envelop your face as you stare down at the sidewalk, Tom matching your pace as you walk. It was an apt word choice, his assertion that he’d been chasing you – chasing you down the sidewalk as you had stormed down it, oblivious to all but your own thoughts. “So you left – a cutting?”

A quick glance shows he is nodding, “Decided against the note in accompaniment. As I said, I’ve been trying to listen to my…”

“But, without a note how would I know it was from you?” You interrupt him, unable to suppress a short laugh.

Tom’s steps stutter and you pause to watch him tilt his head to the side and frown, momentarily stymied before he joins in your laughter. “Ah.” He lifts his hand up to ruffle his fingers through his hair, the curls bending back into place in disregard to the nervous gesture. “Well…”

“What kind of flower is it?”

Your offered lifeline helps him recover. His answer comes as the pair of you continue towards your building. “A bit of Forget Me Not.” He falls silent again when you have to stop short and wait for the crosswalk signal to allow you to traverse an intersection. It’s the hard shake of his head that catches your eye, pulling your attention away from your surroundings.

“I still can’t believe you think I’m dangerous.” His words attract a few quick glances from the others waiting for the light. He isn’t paying them any mind, just shaking his head and watching you. “Dangerous enough to deserve silence, no less.”

He looks pained as he says it. The others around you have started moving forward but the pair of you hold your ground on the curb. So much for a quick stroll back to work. You roll your shoulders, trying to shrug away the pang of guilt caused by his statement. “Ok, but I thought you had met someone else.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, “What? Why would you think that?”

“The photoshoot – you were seen leaving with someone. Same taxi.”

He blinks at you, then breaks into laughter so suddenly it makes you jump. “Oh! No. No, that’s Maggie. She’s – she’s the one that said I should give you space.”

“Oh.” Your earlier embarrassment returns full force. When you can stop looking at your feet you glance up and find him no longer wearing a look of confusion, but grinning. “What?”

“You were jealous.”

You make a face and look up towards the sky at the clouds slowly drifting overhead. “I made an assumption. And yes, I was jealous.” You shake your head when you look back at him, “Oh stop grinning, will you?”

He repeats himself, the smile no less brilliant. “You were jealous.”

“And you, Monsieur, are gloating.” Shaking your head, you start walking again when the crowd moves at the proper signal. Without looking you can sense him moving alongside you. His sure footfall seems easy to pick out despite the sounds of the waking city.

You’re almost back to the building, and Tom is still practically glowing. “Next time, just call.”

“Next time?”

He nods as he readjusts how his satchel hangs off his shoulder, “Yea. Better yet, be the one I’m getting into the taxi with.”

Unsure how to respond beyond smiling, you hum out a noncommittal answer. But why are you pausing? You’ve already admitted so much. There’s no going back now. If you’re going to take that leap, why not make it worth it? “Can we start with your garden? See where it goes from there?”


End file.
